


Pictures and Trinkets

by StrangledAvatar



Series: Pictures and Trinkets, Colours and Stories [1]
Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangledAvatar/pseuds/StrangledAvatar
Summary: Happy Jarry Holidays Week One (Red - life, passion, danger)What would you do for the man you love surrounded by pictures and trinkets of memories? Choices are made for Harry and James.





	1. Loneliness and Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Not entirely sure how to do this. But I hope this is acceptable as my offering to Happy Harry Holiday Week One. If there is anything else, I need to do for this entry, please let me know.
> 
> Honestly cannot decide if I should continue or leave it as a one-off.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

“Shoot me. Kill me.”

 

Harry heard a noise but all he could focus on was the gun pressed against James’ head. _Why was it always a gun?_ The whole scene was surreal. James on his knees, hands tied, gagged, with a gun pressed against his head. Nothing made sense.

 

This was their flat.

 

Pictures of smiling faces adorned the bookcases. Elle, who still calls every couple of weeks just to check in on her big brother. Harry could tell she still felt a little guilty about not being there when James needed her the most. She lifts James’ spirit every time she calls—tales of adventures with laughter like bells twinkling, make him smile for the remainder of the day. James always stands a little straighter after speaking with Elle, finally accepted into the coveted loved (instead of tolerated) family member position. Harry pretends he doesn’t hear Elle’s voice, just so James can repeat her stories with a contented look on his face.

Alfie remembers to check in just to avoid Marnie’s worry; well, not only to check in. He likes to regale his big brother with tales of life in the Big Apple. No doubt, Alfie’s seen the New York themed art and wants to share in his brother’s passion. James always smiles but there’s a hint of worry about Alfie. James once relayed the absolute terror he felt when he saw his littlest brother on the bridge. Though Alfie wasn’t afraid—too lost in his sickness to care. It brought up nightmares of Nathan and how scared he must have been as he fell. Even though Nathan and James weren’t on good terms, or maybe _because_ , James always felt like he failed him. Nathan was his little brother and he didn’t save him. So James worries about Alfie, even as he praises him for his independence.

There are pictures of Romeo, the estate thug who turned out to be this pure soul. The son who challenges his father to be a better man—to meet the expectations that are both lofty and so mundane. Romeo, born out of tragedy, the boy who turned his part into a comedy, sometimes of errors, but mostly of joy. Juliet’s got a place as well. Next to Marnie, whose presence is felt in every corner of James’ life.

Harry’s picture is there as well. Shot at some time that he doesn’t remember. He is smiling his James’ smile so he must have been looking at him. Sometimes James will pick up that picture and the softness of his face always makes Harry want to ask what he’s thinking. But the quiet moment of joy shouldn’t be interrupted so Harry never does. He’s seen James have that same look when focused on his phone—but James just switches it off, if people notice.

 

It’s not just pictures. Little bits and bobs of memories were strewn around. Souvenirs from James’ travels…artifacts that Harry’s afraid he’ll break (but James just laughs and he pulls him back in). There are some of Harry’s trinkets. Not too many, because he had stopped caring about making memories for so long. He’s slowly adding physical reminders of this life he shares with James. His favourite, art that will forever remind him of time in a rainy city—shared kisses of love, like notes harmonizing together in the city of music.

 

This is their home.

 

“What?” The man seemed confused. The grip on the gun didn’t lessen but his eyes shifted back to Harry.

 

It had been a surprise to hear a raised voice outside the flat as Harry was returning. Especially because it wasn’t one, he recognized. He’d stopped to listen for a moment, but it was hard to understand everything. Phrases like “your fault,” “only you’d helped,” or “I’m alone.” It was so hard to figure out what was going on. He wondered if he should just turn around to avoid an emotional client. As involved as he was in James’ life, James still maintained his client confidentiality—mostly to protect Harry. He had just about made up his mind to turn around when the voice said something that made Harry want to burst through the doors and start screaming.

 

“I’m going to kill you. You’re going to suffer. Feel pain. You’re going to die.”

 

Harry had fumbled with the keys, hands shaking too much to get them in the lock. The terror so much worse than anything he’d ever felt. Fear had sat on his chest and he couldn’t breathe. The tears in his eyes didn’t help him unlock the door any quicker. Too afraid of what he’d see when the door opened.

 

As the lock gave way, Harry could see the movement of a man (so small and ordinary looking) drag James by his collar to face the door. A gun was pressed against his head. Right at the part of hair that was slowly going more grey—the part Harry would run his fingers through and image a lifetime of memories.

 

Harry had to try, “Stop! Please stop. Whatever you’re doing…just go. We won’t say anything.”

 

“Get out. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.” The man maintained his grip on the gun and gestured back toward the door. James relaxed minutely when the man signaled toward the door. The gun moving away from him had less to do with it, so much as a chance for Harry to escape. A chance, that James should’ve known he wouldn’t take.

 

Harry’s voice was watery but strong as he shut the door. “I’m not leaving.” He slowly moved further into room, bypassing pictures and trinkets—trying desperately to keep the man’s focus on him. “I don’t know what is going on, but I’m not leaving. I can’t.”

 

The man straightened up and focused his eyes on Harry. The gun back at James’ head, the man raised his voice. “Get out. I don’t care who you are. This isn’t about you. So go!” As if shouting at Harry would make that demand a possibility.

 

“It is about me. You have a gun to head of the man I love. It IS about me. And I can’t leave.”

 

“The man you love huh?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And what if I told you that this man is responsible for the death of the one I loved?” James started talking, incomprehensible words meant to either defend himself or send Harry way. Harry started as the man pushed the gun closer against his head. “Because of him, I’m alone. Completely. Because of you, I wake up everyday and wish I hadn’t. The loneliness is only ever surpassed by the pain. She’s gone. She’s never coming back. You did this!” The gunned pressed so hard against James’ head, that only the grip in his hair kept his neck from bending.

 

Harry raised his hands. Suddenly steady, he needed his hands to save James. This man shouted more words about loss and pain. His voice faltered but his gun never once shook. Looking around the flat, Harry searched for anything he could use. The pictures were suddenly less lovely and more useless. The trinkets wouldn’t help either. The man’s anger was visible—a darkness in the room that was slowly engulfing the light. This man was here for revenge. Not the trite spite Scott employed or even the complicated revenge that Sami used. No, this man wanted simple revenge. Primal. He wanted James to suffer. He wanted him to feel his pain.

 

“Shoot me. Kill me.” The words had come out of Harry’s mouth even before he knew what he was saying. But that didn’t make them any less true. He didn’t mean them any less. He could hear a noise from James. A wretched whine, but he couldn’t stop staring at the gun.

 

“What?” The man seemed confused now. The grip on the gun didn’t lessen but his eyes shifted back to Harry. “Kill you? Are you mad?”

 

Harry couldn’t look at James, couldn’t see the terror in his eyes. “You said, you are alone. You said, he took away the woman you loved.” James frantically started to move. Always so in tune with each, Harry knew James saw where he was going.

 

“He did.” The man had to tighten his grip on both the gun and James’ head.

 

“Killing him’s not going to fix that.”

 

“No, but it will make me feel better.”

 

“No it won’t.” Harry never been so sure of something in his life.

 

“You’re just wasting time for the cops to get here. You won’t stop me.”

 

“It won’t make you feel better because the pain will still be there. James won’t be, but you will. Killing James won’t make him suffer. You need me for that” Then, the terror melted. The fear subsided. Harry knew he was right. He was going to save James and suddenly it was okay. Glancing at James, he focused on those hazel eyes, now filled with fear. He could see him trying to shake his head. Screaming behind the gag. Harry felt his own tears form. But strangely enough, so did a smile.

 

“You?”

 

Harry focused on James—staring into his eyes. “I’m the man he loves.” Harry could feel the truth in his words. “He has loved me for so long. When I couldn’t even love myself, he loved me. I am his happily ever after. I’m the fairytale ending.” His voice tempered down into a whisper, “I’m his person.”

 

“So what? James is the one who should suffer.” Contrary to his words, the man (still so small and ordinary) started to look less certain.

 

“He will. Aren’t you suffering?”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re in pain because she’s gone…because you’re not. You’re here and she isn’t. You’re alone without your person. And you want to make someone pay for that. Right now, the only person you are going to make suffer is me.” Looking away from James was the hardest thing Harry ever did.

 

“You?”

 

“That pain: the emptiness and loneliness. You are going to give that to me. I’m the one who will wake up alone and wish I hadn’t. I’m the one who will visit stones marking rotted flesh—all that remains of the person I carry in my soul. I don’t deserve that. You said it yourself, it isn’t about me.”

 

James managed to wrestle himself away from the hold and wrenched himself towards Harry. The noises he was making were louder—the screams more visceral. Trying desperately to stop Harry, to protect Harry, to save Harry. The impact of the gun against his head, drove him to the floor. James sluggishly turned his head toward Harry, still trying to move. Begging with his eyes.

 

Harry smiled at James. Saying the words were both easier and harder than he thought. “You shoot me. You kill me. And James lives.” He could taste the tears. “You want him to feel the what you feel. That suffering. That loneliness. He once said that he would die alone. But if you kill James, it’s done—the pain. If you kill me, it’ll never end. Not for James.”

 

The noises from the floor were different...softer. Crying.

 

The man looked down at James. “Okay.” He pointed the gun at Harry.

 

 


	2. Silence and Emptiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the immediate reaction of the events of the previous chapter. I'm still unsure of the final ending. Or if I should leave it for the readers to imagine. Please let me know any and all ideas.
> 
> As always, any feedback is greatly appreciated.

Silence.

 

Stillness.

 

James remembered some story, a report, about a scene after a bombing. The details escape him. It was a woman: a survivor who spoke about the aftermath. The quietness. People stumbling around but never making a sound; or maybe she’d just not been able to hear them. She’d seen their mouths open—crying out their pain in silent screams, but she’d be unable to do anything but stare at the devastation of one moment, one man’s choice. She’d prayed for her eyes to go as blind as her ears deaf. To block out the sight of the emptiness. The nothingness that used to be her world. Everything went by so slowly, so quietly. Until it didn’t. Until the horror moaned out her pain and her life slammed back into focus.

James had been skeptical, thinking her dramatic. The tragedy was real but what she described was too extreme to be accurate, no doubt overwhelmed by her experience. He’d thought the story sad, in a way that one does when it happened somewhere else—and he’d had the safety, the _luxury_ , to do so. And then he’d turned off the channel. Going back to his real life where events like that only happen on a screen. Until they don’t.

 

When he thinks back on that moment (he will relive that moment, forever), James knows he won’t remember the gunshot. _Did he even hear it?_ He will remember the silence. The stillness. Everything so ironically serene. So quiet.

 

The flat wasn’t quiet these days. Not with so many people there. When he’d first come to the village, James would not have conceived of living with such dissonance. Romeo’s video games. Juliet’s shrill gripes. Mother’s moanings. Harry’s laughter. It all blended together to create an ever-present hum in the background of this house. An underlying pulse that gave music to the pictures and mementos that changed his flat into their home.

 

It did not feel like home anymore. Too quiet.

 

The man (who he still couldn’t remember) was speaking at him; but he couldn’t hear him. Unable to take his eyes away from where James had seen Harry fall backwards. So gracefully—but then Harry’d always been graceful. His body an extension of his essence. Beautiful and strong, but agile. Harry had been dancing around James for years. Always just out of reach, until now.

Now Harry wanted to dance with James. He remembered that day. Mother had been out with Juliet and Romeo was chasing Lily. Cindy was gone, and it was just Harry and himself. He’d been so focused on Mac’s case that at first, he’d not heard Harry request. He remembered being bemused. Dancing? In the flat. Harry’s hand was outstretched, and his smile was small but happy. James had looked at the hand (and the smile) and been tempted. He’d always be tempted by Harry. But Mac was too strong; his pull to great. In the end, James had promised to dance with him later. Promised to take him out to dance. Promised to make time just for him. Promised so many things.

He would dance with Harry now if he could. He would take his hand, draw him close, and never let him go. He would keep him safe. He’d promised that so long ago. If he could, he would stop promising and start doing.

 

His head was jerked up and his vision changed. Back on his knees, James only saw the man whose choice devastated his world. Life slammed back into focus.

 

“How does it feel?” James could hear the smugness in his voice. Still gagged, James made sure to stare into the man’s eyes. The woman had wanted to go blind, James wanted to see. He would memorize his visage. He wouldn’t forget. He would sear the image, so that when the time for revenge came (and it would come), he would always remember this moment.

 

Now just remembering that his prisoner was gagged, the man roughly pulled it out and repeated his question. Opening his mouth to relieve the soreness, James could feel his lips pull back into a snarl. But still he stayed silent. He would not give this (little) man the satisfaction so desperately wanted.

 

“Oh, you won’t talk to me?” His voice turned singsong, “You’ve got nothing to say?” The man was smiling with joy. Happiness, so at odds with the rage seething from the man still tied in front of him. “You certainly had enough to say earlier? It was hard to hear, but I think I got some of it. Tell me if I’m right.”

**“Harry, no.”**

**“NO, NO, NO.”**

**“Shot me, not Harry.”**

“And my personal favourite…although it was hard to tell through your tears”

“ **Please**.”

“Do you beg like that often? Or is that just for special occasions?”

 

Every word out of the man’s mouth only fueled James’ wrath. That was it was. Wrath. Written about for millennia, this anger drove gods to destroy civilizations and men to destroy themselves. James could feel it. He welcomed it in, embraced it. He felt it just under his skin…vibrating…waiting. All he needed was a chance.

 

The man walked over to where Harry lay. Casually looking down. James could feel the bile in his throat. It took all his strength to breathe. His nostrils flared as his breathing got faster. Still he said nothing, did nothing. It was only when the man raised his foot to kick Harry that James reacted.

 

“Don’t!”

 

The man chuckled and pointed down at Harry. “Don’t what? Don’t do this?” Drawing back his foot, he kicked Harry’s side.

 

Every nerve in James’ body seemed to light on fire. His heart pounded so loud in his ears. His vision tunneled onto Harry’s body’s and he started to shake. He couldn’t decide if he was going to pass out or start screaming. But before he could do either, the quiet was shattered with a sound.

 

From Harry.

 

A dead man’s rattle or a dying man’s moan? James couldn’t decide which was worse. To have his final memory of Harry be the air pushed out his corpse or to have to watch him die…AGAIN.

 

The man seemed just as surprised as James and cautiously looked down at Harry. He nudged him with his foot.

 

Harry groaned.

 

With that sound, James’ anger changed to something more dangerous: hope. Harry was alive and this time, James would save him. He would do anything. “Let me help him.”

 

“No.”

 

“You have to let me help him!”

 

“That!” Pointing at James’ face, the man smiled. “That pain. That fear. That agony. That’s what I wanted to see. The man giggled, gleeful. “How does it feel?”

 

“He’s going to die. You have to let me help him.”

 

The man stood straight and pointed the gun back at James. “I don’t HAVE to do anything. Just like you didn’t HAVE to do anything. You did nothing. So will I. She died and now so will he.”

 

James could feel the desperation grow with each moment. He’d only felt like this a few times before and they were almost always about Harry. About losing Harry. Sitting in a police interview room with Ste and getting the call about the car crash. Watching Harry walk out the hospital toward the police cars. Hearing Harry’s voicemail and looking at the time before the wedding. So many moments of desperation. “What do you want from me? What do you want me to do? What will it take for you to let me help him?”

 

“You really love him that much?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’d do anything to save him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Anything I want?”

 

“YES.”

 

The man paused and looked at James. James didn’t know what he saw. Did he see the same as everyone in the village? A cold, bitter, twisted individual (Scott’s voice), a person who would ruin the life of someone he cared for (Mother), a disgusting human being (Ste), a man who doesn’t love (Harry). That last one was different now though. Harry, who would stroke his beard, who would whisper praises into his hair, who would smile at him with his whole heart, would say that James was worthy of love, of life…of death. James could feel the tears start to pool in his eyes.

 

The man noticed the tears and something in him relaxed. He smiled. “I already have what I want. I want you to watch the man you love die. Slowly. I want you to know that it is all to do with you. If you’d never met Harry, he’d still be alive. He’d be happy. He wouldn’t be on this floor, groaning—dying. I want to take every moment you’ve ever had with Harry and taint it with his blood. I want you to know that he died for you. Were you worth it?”

 

With every sentence, James felt something break inside. He slumped. His eyes went back to Harry. Tilting his head downward, James tried to hold back the tears. There was no more anger. There was no more strength. There was only this. The loneliness. The emptiness. The silence. Focusing on Harry, he searched for breath. Looking at the chest, he would sometimes lay his head on. At the face he would caress into a kiss, James willed him to live. _I love you_. _Stay_. _Please_.

 

“Were you worth it?”

 

James could barely breathe out an answer, “No.”

 

The sound of the door closing was all that greeted his reply.

 

Then it was quiet again.


	3. Red: Passion, Life, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final part. 
> 
> What will happen now that the man is gone? Dealing with a head injury and bound hands, can James save Harry?
> 
> Memories and colours blend together.

James used to love the colour red. Power, passion, love; its force drew the watcher’s soul. It heightened emotion and tinted memories in the mind’s eye. Like a string of fate, red weaved through his memories of Harry. James still has the red shirt he wore the first time he kissed Harry. A moment so full of anger and humiliation…and passion. That kiss changed his life. He’d laugh at the cliché if it weren’t true. A kiss born out of pain, paved the path for the greatest love of his life. A love that taunted him, the many months that followed. Constantly wanting a broken boy whose future was shattered by a careless act of _passion_. Trying desperately to hold onto Harry and coming up short each time, failing each time. Until the day he was released from prison and decided that this time, he would start doing…he would win.

Telling Harry that James was the one in his thoughts was his truest utterance. Tired of letting him return to Ste, the mongrel who ravaged Harry’s future, consumed his soul, and spat out his essence like a bad taste, James had to act. He would wage war on Harry’s token resistance. And when they kissed, it tasted of victory.

A victory that soon turned to ash in his mouth when he’d shown up too late to stop Harry’s wedding. The triumph he’d felt when he’d heard that voicemail, _I love you and all your messed up flaws_ , dissipated like the mirage it was—his failure and loneliness all that remained. For months they surrounded him, guarded him, strengthened him. Until that same color stripped them away. Again promising him the love (Harry) of his life, when Harry confirmed that James was all he wanted. The color of love tied Harry to James and he to Harry.

 

The color dyeing the floor…slowly creeping towards James.

 

 

James hastily tried to get to Harry, despite being bound. Sluggish from the blow to his head, he staggered and fell to the floor. Trying to get back to his feet, he vaguely realized there was a moisture on his hands—his sole focus reaching Harry. He was desperate, too afraid to stop lest he think about what he would find. His tied hands and head wound made it too difficult to stand up. Deciding to crawl, James doggedly made his way closer to where Harry lay. He could hear a rushing sound in his ear and again his vision seemed to tunnel, getting darker on the edges. Slowly, it seemed a lifetime, James drew nearer.

 

Finally, he was with Harry. James reached out for him.

 

James would never **not** see the blood on his hands. He knew that years from now, his hands will still bear the stain, like a red wine spilled on fine lace. As Lady MacBeth, he’d scrub them raw, unable to stop seeing the horror of his action, his _inaction_. The crimson would taint them forever. Boiling water would run over them until other hands (Harry’s hands, always) would soothe the pain. Those hands would hold his…cover the stain.

 

For one moment, a lifetime really, James froze. Unable to look away from his hands. But a quiet sound, a rattle, from Harry roused him again. Wasn’t it always that way though? Harry moving him, even when he no longer thought he could. James shook his head to clear it, which only made the world tilt alarmingly. He focused on the man in front of him. Never more thankful of his analytical mind, James looked for the injury. He tried to forget that was man whose presence filled his life so completely that he did not know when Harry ended, and James began. James willed himself to dispassionately observe his body.

 

There was so much blood.

 

Images of Harry wearing red assaulted his mind. Flirting (and being flirted with) over homework at the Dog, being comforted on the bridge about Kyle, or later being visited when no one else would—when he thought he’d die alone in prison. These precious memories now had a crimson overlay. James never hated that man more than now for tainting his memories of Harry.

 

In Harry’s pocket, James noticed his phone. Carefully, James reached to take it. Afraid of jostling Harry, he carefully extracted it, all the while watching for signs that he was hurting him. Harry never moved. Dialing the number, James felt himself begin to wander; a tiredness spread through his body. But that was okay. Help would come now. The paramedics would save Harry. The doctors would save Harry. He leaned down to tell Harry the good news.

 

Harry wasn’t moving…at all. There were no more sounds—the last one had been when? _When had Harry last made a sound?_ Was he screaming into the phone or only in his head? His heart started pounding again. His vision sharpened. The voice was talking but he couldn’t understand them. Harry wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing. James felt his breathing get faster as if to compensate, as if to breathe for him.

 

“…compressions.” The voice filtered into through the haze.

 

“What?” Panting into the phone, James frantically tried to calm down enough to listen.

 

“Help is on the way, but you need to begin CPR. Breathing and compressions.”

 

“He’s been shot! I-I don’t know. Wha?” James forced himself to calm down enough to get the instructions.

 

James placed his hands on Harry’s chest. He supposed he should be grateful that his hands were tied in front. Still mindful of the injury, James was reluctant to push too hard. Wasn’t that his biggest problem? He was always pushing too hard. At people, opportunities. Harry would laugh and—James shook his head again. It was getting harder to focus. He looked back at Harry. Breathing through his nose, James began to press his hands into Harry’s chest. How many times had he-was it 30 yet? Was he supposed to breathe into Harry now? He could hear Harry making a joke about the breath of life and James’ kisses.

 

His hands stopped moving.

 

James stilled.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

Everything was silent.

 

“Sir. SIR! Are you there?” The voice on the phone startled James.

 

He started pushing again. How long had it been? He focused back on Harry and pressed again. Hard.

 

He felt something shift—something crack under his hands. James reared back. Staring at his hands again. Shaking. His breathing suddenly was the loudest thing in the room. He felt tears in his eyes, and he opened his mouth but all he could do was pant _. What did he just do_? There was a buzzing sound growing ever louder.

 

James reached down to Harry. He looped his hands around his shoulders and pulled him in. Overbalanced, James fell backwards but that only drew Harry closer to him. Holding him tight in his arms, James stared down at him. The face, he never got tired of seeing (would never get tired of). Trying to focus. Tears dropped onto his face. James hugged him close and whispered “Please don’t leave…I don’t want you to go. Stay here with me.”

 

His eyes looked around the room for something, anything to help him. Pictures. Trinkets. Then lights.

 

“They’re here Harry. They’ve come.” It was harder to speak. His breathing was louder but slower.

 

As much as his bound hands would let him, James caressed Harry’s face and tried again “I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s okay now.”

 

Softer, “I love you.”

 

He could hear the sounds at the front door.

 

Still holding Harry, James closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems that I am physically incapable of ending a chapter in anything other than an angsty cliffhanger. I'm sorry. But this is where this part ends.
> 
> However, I am thinking about using the overall story to navigate the different colours for the @HappyJarryHolidays as a series.
> 
> I've already have an idea for the orange: healing (this week's prompt). Whether it's for James AND Harry or just one of them, is still pending.
> 
> I would love to issue an invitation to anyone/everyone. I've not written in a really long time (I do mean LONG). So I don't know if I can keep up with the different weeks. If there is anyone who would like to take a part of this story and colour, please do. I would be thrilled and honoured actually. There are so many talented writers and readers. I would love to see your take on the story. No pressure though :) Even if you just have an idea, please share!
> 
> Please leave me your thoughts.
> 
> Most of all, thank you for taking this journey with me.


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